Order restored! His simplest creature comfort of being able to check the time at his leisure made Ethan feel much more in control of his surroundings and actions, totally understandable for a man who had lived by the motions of the hands of time. Having had the first meal and coffee of this visit to the 19th Century, Ethan’s next order of business was a visit to the fabric shop on Hutton Street, a short walk down Commercial Street then left onto Whitechapel Road then a right onto Hutton to his destination. Along the way as midday was fast approaching, these main streets were rapidly becoming more congested with traffic of vendors, vagrants and vagabonds, protestors and prostitutes. Horse drawn wagons and wooden push carts were filled with any and all sorts of trash and treasures, serving poor and needy souls.

Horse-mounted and foot-patrolling constables created a visible deterrent to any lawlessness in the streets of Whitechapel. History recorded the Whitechapel police beefing up their attendance after two murders of local women had already occurred this year. On 3 April 1888 a forty-five year old prostitute named Emma Smith was attacked and bludgeoned by three men considered to be a local gang. Although she made it away from them, she died from her injuries that following morning. Some historians labeled this the beginning of the Autumn of Terror. Only a desperate few from local gangs attacked women. In fact, violent offenses against females during this period rarely made it into double digits in a year’s time. On 7 August, however, the local law began to pay attention when another prostitute by the name of Martha Tabram was found stabbed to death on the landing of the George Yard buildings at 5:00 a.m. The two women never made the profile of Jack the Ripper’s methodology of killing, yet remained on the radar. Both being unsolved and so close in proximity to others yet to come, Ethan’s research indicated (and The Consortium agreed) that Mary Ann Nichols was most likely the first true victim of Jack the Ripper, that this would be the focus of the Flicker jump.

He couldn’t make it to the tailor shop fast enough. Even struggling to avoid any and all eye contact, he could feel countless eyes on him, prostitutes and pickpockets alike sizing him up for the taking. Were he not a man of tall stature he surely would have been targeted for a robbery by a group of street thugs. Fortunately, he made it to his destination without incident. Entering the shop that, on the outside, had the address Drake’s had given him, Ethan was one of several customers patronizing the place. Three counters lined the three walls of the shop, rolls upon rolls of fabrics of low to decent quality materials standing up on end, as if standing at attention. Some customers were buying material for clothing, some for furniture and others seeking matching material for patchwork. Positioned in the back left corner of the shop were two racks of clothing made by the in-house tailor, Thomas Clemens. Sitting behind a sewing machine was the man that could have been the watchmaker’s twin. Ethan rubbed his eyes in disbelief wondering if the man was having a joke on him and ran over there while Ethan was eating. As all the other shoppers were looking to bother the fabric clerk, Ethan approached Drakes’ clone while he was patching someone’s jacket where the elbow section of the sleeve had become tattered with wear.

“Pardon me, sir? Drakes, the watchmaker, sent me to see you regarding some local attire.”

“To answer your question, no, he is not my twin brother.” Clemens anticipated an inquiry, having been asked countless times before.

“I’m sorry?” Ethan played innocent, not wanting to pry.

Thomas Clemens stopped sewing then stood, walking around a bulky apparatus. There was a thud with every other step. With the assistance of a cane, he approached Ethan who immediately saw the wooden left leg.

“It’s funny when men reach a certain age we all begin to look alike. White facial hair, all hunched over, we become a species of bleached imps.”

“I’m somewhat stumped. What I mean is, uh, I’m surprised how similar...”

“Perhaps a restart, sir?” Clemens could barely contain an outburst of laughter.

“Please.” Ethan said, sounding relieved. “My name is Arthur Bridgeman.”

Ethan chose not to use his title since he’d already provided enough information in his style of dress, still carrying the medical bag. No need to state the obvious.

“Well, what can I do for you, Mr. Bridgeman?”

“Well sir, I’m to be in town for an extended period of time as to require some additional attire. Something more, shall I say, ‘common’ to this region of London. Might you help me with this?”

The tailor looked Ethan up and down. Pulling a pipe out of his coat pocket he placed it in his mouth unlit. It seemed to help him think better.

“What is it you’d like, sir?”

“Well, I suppose the whole works if you can. Shirts, trousers, vests and jackets, even the customary hats. Two of each for now and more if they do the job.”

“I suppose I could provide two full matching wardrobes from what I have here today unless you are particular about the fabric or style.”

“No, thank you, but I’ll take what you have for now.” Ethan said, trying not to sound too desperate to get out of his current clothing.

“I’ll see what I can put together for you, sir.” Clemens seemed amenable.

As the old man hobbled off, relying on his sturdy cane for support, Ethan looked down, realizing he had forgotten one more important detail.

“I’d ask you about a place to buy shoes but I tremble at the thought of triplets.”

“Trust me. Two of us is quite enough.” Clemens had “sized him up” at a glance, no need for any measurements. He plucked everything Ethan would need from the racks in a matter of minutes. Laying two full outfits across the counter, he grinned.

“Well my good man, Drakes sent you to the right place. These are to your liking, Dr. Bridgeman?” (Yes, it was that obvious.)

“More than suitable for my purposes, thank you.”

With that, the two gentlemen completed the transaction. Clemens had his clerk wrap the clothing in brown paper as they chatted jovially for a few minutes. Ethan bid him farewell, leaving the shop with his new attire bundled beneath his arm. So far, so good. Ethan was beginning to settle into the 19th Century.

The medical bag was clearly a problem, drawing unwanted attention wherever he went. Likewise, Ethan was carrying an inordinate amount of cash on his person, an invitation to disaster should he be robbed on the seedy streets of the East End. If he was going to blend in, he needed to do himself the favor of finding a safer place to stash the bag that routinely gave him away as a man of means. As he did not trust leaving it behind in his room, he decided to make one more stop.

On his way to the tailor shop, Ethan had passed a financial institution close by on Whitechapel Road, no doubt established in service to the area slum lords, a place for their local managers to make rental deposits so they’d have no need to come to that part of town. This time he’d use the conspicuous medical bag to his advantage. Entering the bank, his presence was noted instantly, his stylish attire commanding attention and respect from the employees. He was approached immediately.

“Good day, sir. How may I be of service to you today, doctor, is it?” With that, he extended his hand. “Horace Edgewood, bank manager, at your service.”

“A pleasure, sir. Doctor Arthur Bridgeman.” Ethan gave him a firm handshake and a warm greeting to begin their association. “I’ve a sizeable deposit to make and my bag needs safekeeping, as well.”

As it turned out, Mr. Edgewood could be more than accommodating and would, in fact, give Dr. Bridgeman not just a tour of the bank but a safe deposit box ample enough to receive whatever he should need to store during his stay. Opening a bank account required only the documentation he had in the bag which promptly moved to the vault once he’d signed the papers. Retrieving his personal identification from the banker, there was never any question regarding its authenticity. It was all quite cordial, good fortune for Ethan to make his acquaintance as another ally in his quest to scope out the Ripper. A necessity to place the bulk of his considerable financial assets behind the walls of a bank, it was Mr. Edgewood’s good fortune as well. One deposit made his day and week, providing Ethan with one less thing to worry about on a day-to-day basis for the many weeks of his stay.

“Glad to be of service!” Shaking Dr. Bridgeman’s hand once again, Edgewood would remember the gentleman who’d come to call that day.

Returning to his residence on Dorset, Ethan rummaged through the clothing he bought. The materials used for the trousers, vests and coats were rough, scratchy to the touch, no doubt the same material his bed sheets were designed from. The shirts and ties were made from flimsy cloth that would surely stain and wear down within weeks. He would definitely need to visit the tailor again over the next two months. At least he’d blend in with the locals, assuming the role in an unassuming way.

On the way to his room he’d paid yet another disinterested innkeeper for another night’s stay. A younger lad, it mattered not. A paid innkeeper is a happy innkeeper. Once again avoiding any unwanted attention as he made his way up the stairwell, Ethan decided to sequester himself in his room for a while, taking some time to try on his new clothing and acclimate to the itchy fabric in private. As predicted, from the moment he slipped on the shirt and pulled up the trousers, his tender skin reacted to the offense. So began the scratching. He began to peel the clothes from his body, an instant relief. Ethan made light of it when an unexpected epiphany came to light. He chuckled softly, considering the notion that there might be a fringe benefit with these untenable trousers. Scratching various portions of his anatomy in public might draw some unwanted attention or may work in the reverse, warding off people who might fear he had an infectious rash! Absolutely no reason to torture himself while in the privacy of his own room, his cotton briefs and undershirt would do him well for the time being. A sudden pang of regret, Ethan wished Colin was there with him so they could both have a good laugh over it together.

Time enough for a short nap before dinner, Ethan crawled into bed. He’d meant to log his activities into his journal but decided to do it later, knowing he’d spend a great deal of time writing once the morning of August 31st arrived and he’d witness the first slaying of Jack the Ripper’s victims. He would be quite busy logging those observations into his journal, keeping him tucked away in his room and out of sight for the better part of each day. There would be plenty of time to record every event, as his interactions were already impaled in his memory, easy to recall. He was tired.

In the midst of his dreams, Ethan had something similar to that cross between actual experience and subconscious creation occur. At one point he dreamt of being a celebrity, walking the red carpet, the multitude of photographers taking snapshots like the ones beside Princess Diana’s Mercedes. Cameras flashing, going off like a thousand lightning strikes, it was a constant barrage, only brighter, more akin to the flash when crossing through the Flicker. In fact, exactly like that but over and over, repeating like an instant replay of the event. Yet, he kept on walking as if the Flicker doorway never ended. The red carpet beneath his shoes suddenly sounded like liquid, as if he was stepping in puddles and indeed, as he looked down, realizing the carpet was flowing with blood. Although he stopped walking, he could hear the footsteps of someone behind him. As the tempo of these steps increased, his brain told him to pick up the pace. Run! But the blood was getting stickier, making it harder to lift his feet. The heavier his feet felt the faster the running came from behind. He had no strength left in his legs. Just as he was about to collapse, the bloody carpet came to an abrupt end and the source of the crimson path was revealed. Just ahead, crawling away in terror was the one-legged tailor, Mr. Clemens, his wooden leg gone, blood pouring from the stump. He looked back at Ethan, horrified. No. Wait. He was not looking at Ethan, he was looking past him at whatever was running up behind him, catching up rapidly. Ethan felt the same compelling need to look over his shoulder. As he did so, an arctic chill ran down his spine, an absolute loss of logic. Out of the shadows, splashing over the bloody path was Mr. Clemens! No! It was Mr. Drakes! Wielding a blood-drenched knife, laughing maniacally in a high-pitched squeal, he was moving very quickly in spite of his short little legs, coming directly toward Ethan! Turning to run, the blood had dried and he was stuck in it. Coagulated, glued to his feet, Ethan was frozen in place, no escape. He tried yelling but no sound came forth. In front of him, Clemens was gone and in his place was all of his forensic evidence, photographs from the desk in his bedroom at Oxford. Losing his equilibrium, Ethan fell forward onto the pictures, coming face-to-face with Jack the Ripper’s victims, his hands landing on the pictures that seemed to be floating atop the pool of blood. So was he, bobbing on the surface and trying to use the photographs as floatation devices. He pawed at them like some frantic animal drowning, attempting to make it to shore but there was no shoreline, just blood and the autopsy images beginning to transform into motion pictures with sound. Their corpses began looking at Ethan and screaming at him over and over again, “He’s coming for you! He’s coming for you!” Just as Ethan was about to ask them WHO was coming for him, he felt someone grabbing him by the back of his hair. For that moment, just a fraction of a second, he thought it was somebody pulling him from the murky red death, until he felt the blade touch his throat. All Ethan could do was stare at the images as they looked back at him with soulful remorse, his own blood spraying all over them to such an extent, he could no longer see their faces. Drakes pulled at Ethan’s hair harder, causing him to stare upward into the dark, starless sky. Severing his head from his neck, the geyser of blood shot straight up and back onto his face like a rainfall. Drakes continued to laugh as all Ethan could see was the man’s face, his own blood raining down. Raining on him. Raining. “Holy fuck! It’s raining in my room!” Ethan came out of his dream to find himself drenched to the skin from leaks in the ceiling. It had begun to pour during his nap, syphoning down from the fourth floor. In any other scenario this would have been upsetting, but for him, it was a blessing. He’d kept his head through the ordeal. The curse had been the nightmare coming out of nowhere in the middle of the day.

Ethan immediately reached for his timepiece. Luckily, it was still in the pocket of his vest safely draped over the night table and not exposed to the inside waterfall. Checking the time, it was just past four in the afternoon. Most of the leak was near the wooden headboard dripping down the wall, forming a half moon shape on the ceiling around the size of a saucer. The dream, a bona fide nightmare left him sitting on the edge at the foot of the bed, away from the leak, soaked at his feet as the water puddled, failing to drain down through the floorboards to the second floor. Instead, it accumulated, certain to make it quite slippery and tricky to maneuver once he had to move around the room. So, for the present, he stayed put, deciding how to resolve the omnipresent dilemma overhead.

Still shaken, stirred by the imagery his mind could conceive, it could have only been some side effect of the Flicker. He used both hands to wipe away the rainwater dripping from his hair and forehead, smearing it over his eyes and face in an attempt to clear the images from his mind. It did not help. The picture of swimming in blood permeated the pores of his skin. He decided to clean up for dinner. Pulling the bed away from the waterfall wall while minding his footing on the trackless wet floor, he flipped the mattress over and around so any part of the cotton stuffing that still remained drenched went to the foot of the bed. Most of his new clothing was still wrapped in the brown paper sack on the top of the desk against the opposite wall. He unwrapped them and separated the items by shirts, trousers, vests, hat and coats. Looking for the best matching collaboration of each item, he picked out his evening wear then refolded what he did not need. More than anything else, Ethan needed to wash away that dream. A man prone to self-reflection, he had to consider where in bloody hell it came from! Jack the Ripper could be anyone he’d passed on the street!

Usually, every floor of a lodging house had a community bath where the tenants could go clean up or shave using a large water basin that had to be hauled down to a pump in the street, then heated. Within that basin lay the contents of a self-body wash and shave, normally in that sequence. Dental hygiene would not be discovered for another twenty years or so. Ethan would have to use a combination of soap and peroxide and a cloth for his teeth. The privy was a publicly shared outhouse, a shed with a single box, a hole cut into it and was located in the alley behind the building. Ethan was well aware of the barbaric conditions compared to the year he’d stepped out of, but the true reality always seemed to revert back to the indescribable stench.

Having completed the somewhat daunting task of performing personal hygiene in the year 1888, it was time for him to don his authentic, not-tailored-for-him attire. A size larger, more than a century behind his normal threads, he looked as verifiably local as anyone he’d seen without seeing himself in a mirror, but he felt more of an uncomfortable synchronicity with the history he was living in. The only remnant of his doctor’s attire were the shoes. Perhaps in his procrastination was an impending sense of dread, anguish associated with wearing any indigenous footwear. Not the best conditions to break in a new pair considering how much stealthy footwork was ahead of him, numerous trips scheduled over the next nine weeks or so. His wasn’t an unreasonable expectation of blisters and pain. The notion of wearing itchy socks inside unpadded soles brought a sense of foreboding to his psyche. For the moment he would enjoy the one creature comfort remaining.

Many a time in a man’s life when, from such a primal place as the male ego, he finds everything rides on a moment. How quickly it shatters like glass. In an instant, it is put together like a steel frame. The male ego is the biggest, most sensitive organ of his anatomy. Dressed in his new timeline attire, Ethan ate a huge piece of humble pie. A necessary evil for the sake of anonymity in his research, but for a man of few vanities, this was rough, though not nearly as rough as the feel of the fabric against the hair on his body. He walked around attempting to adjust to the prickly sensation. Even though he kept the comfortable underwear on, from the upper thigh down the material declared war on Ethan’s leg hair. More like a tug-of-war with every strand. The more he focused on it, the worse it became. Somewhere between pinching and scratching came an absurdly brief period of relief, followed by the next distracting, annoying tingle. If he couldn’t find the will to resist reacting, people would, indeed, clear a path for him! It couldn’t be a more perfectly unplanned plan.

With his medical bag safely locked away in the vault, identification papers with him, the only things Ethan had no choice but to leave in his room while he went out for dinner were the clothes off his back, the comfortable outfit he wore for the jump and these lesser quality replacements. Neatly folded on the desk, he could only hope his paranoia about an innkeeper with sticky fingers was far from the truth. The rain had begun to subside while he was washing up. Something told him stopping at the manager’s window to bring the leak to his attention would be a fruitless endeavor, a waste of his breath. He chose to make as little noise as possible, saying nothing.

Locking the room door behind him, Ethan was eager for dinner back at the Ten Bells Pub. With any luck, he would navigate the one street journey without any of the previous attention he’d received earlier in the day. Stepping past the innkeeper’s cubbyhole, nodding to one of the familiar managers, he stepped onto Dorset Street and made an immediate left toward the corner. Using the hat he’d bought to obscure part of his face, looking down at the ground felt covert, adding an extra asset to his subterfuge while out in public. Blending into the surroundings, his main objective, the need to remain faceless and nameless was critical to the mission. Except for the nasty names he was called once he’d reached the corner of Dorset and Commercial Street, an altercation he couldn’t avoid. Head down, appearing a little too much like a spy, Ethan almost knocked over a lady as she rounded the corner, toting a sack of potatoes among other things. She couldn’t see any better than he could, considering what she had in her arms but he definitely caught the blame for the contact.

“You bloody twit! Are you daft or just a witless bugger?”

“Apologies, m’ lady, ‘twas my honest mistake.” Tipping his hat to her, yielding the path as he tried out his even older English accent, she seemed to accept it.

“Honestly, toss off if you know what’s good for you!” She scolded the man.

Tipping his hat once again, he fit right in! The woman huffed off to his right as Ethan turned left onto Commercial Street, heading toward his dining destination. If for a second he’d smiled at the encounter with the lady it was because this bump in the night was the first time Ethan felt like he could really pull it off without a hitch. What he said to Colin in that little room at the LHC compound needed to be said to his friend, but Ethan knew he would run into variables of an unexpected nature and would have to think quickly on his feet, adapting to situations, as necessary. It was literally his first obstacle while in his new change of clothes and it went quite well.

For the remainder of his short walk to the Ten Bells Pub, Ethan appeared to be no different than anyone else strolling this main road. Commercial Street was abuzz with activity at the time, characters on foot and horseback alike, making their way to some destination of importance or profit. In the 19th Century in East End London the only true and constant form of entertainment for its inhabitants and visitors alike was, well, themselves. In a day one could witness musicians, protestors, lobbyists, lawmen, pickpockets, prostitutes and orphans running amok. It was one tremendous opportunity for opportunists to gain capital and for those breaking the law to receive swift justice. Oh, there were simply those trying to get through the day going from their job to home hopefully without incident, but the best military obstacle courses paled in comparison to the amount of ducking and dodging required in this part of one of the largest, most populated cities in the world, successfully avoiding the law breakers while evading the law keepers. Life in the Whitechapel district was not for the meek or faint of heart. It was dangerous to speak with strangers or worse yet, to ignore one’s immediate surroundings. To do so could prove perilous when on every corner, in every dark alleyway, a predator was waiting for the right prey to pass by.

Ethan’s research had indeed given him an advantage, knowing the considerable historical record of lawlessness, who exactly to watch out for while in the company of thieves and scoundrels. Reaching his destination he’d navigated the task without incident and arrived fully intact. The pub was far more active for the evening meal and drink than earlier in the day. The staff was four or more times the number there to serve him previously. Barmaids making their way through crowds, heaving mugs of drink above patron’s heads, heaving their breasts into the men, a gratuitous tactic to up their gratuity. Ethan looked for a familiar face but did not see his server from breakfast. He assumed she had finished her shift.

“Seat yourself, love. Someone will be with ya.” A voice came from the crowd. Momentary eye contact confirmed that the barmaid was speaking to him. Ethan had to acknowledge that message, so he waved, no point in trying to converse. Looking around he saw nothing free. Most of the center of the room was furnished with long warped wooden benches and beverage stained tables, all appearing quite occupied. As he walked along the length of the pub he spotted a small nook in the back with a block table and two chairs. Making a slalom motion through several intoxicated patrons, he was able to claim the small space as his own. Many town folk frequented the Ten Bells for the chance to mingle, grumble, gripe and drink away their troubles of the day. Ethan hoped being blocked from view in his little corner didn’t mean he would be ignored, neither seen nor served.

Although his schedule was not highly regimented over the next two days, Ethan certainly needed to eat well before his reconnoiter of the Bucks Row area later on, and more coffee was an absolute necessity. He was slightly relieved his first cup of coffee in this century (that morning) was not as dreadful as expected. It was a strong mix, a blend of chicory coffee, hot tea water and most likely, mud. A bit gritty, but it did the trick as a caffeine fix. A woman artfully dodging in and out of the crowd, she approached, spotting Ethan tucked away in the innocuous nook.

“Evenin’, sir. Ya fancy food or drink?”

“Coffee. Please. To start.”

Off she went as quickly as she’d arrived. Ethan pulled out his journal and began to review his prior entry when the server returned, cup in hand.

“So, feeling a bit peckish, are we?” She asked with seemingly genuine interest.

“Perhaps an idea of what’s good?” Ethan curiously inquired.

“Are we still talkin’ ‘bout food, sir?”

Ethan’s expression turned from confusion to discomfort as he realized she was hitting on him, offering more than a hot meal. The woman sensed his awkwardness. Although enjoying the tease, she got right down to business.

“We gots duck, rabbit or chicken with carrots, onions n’ potatoes. Ya could try our ‘three penny ordinary’ if ya like. It’s a meat in broth n’ a beer. Don’t know if ya can afford more than that, sir.” The server spoke with an empathy in her voice. She probably went hungry in her life, couldn’t even afford to eat where she worked.

Her indelicate statement was music to her patron’s ears. Ethan realized she was referring to his clothing. It worked!

“That sounds just fine, thank you.” Ethan said. “I’ll try the chicken.”

As his server headed to the kitchen Ethan pondered the next meal of his travels. It had been over twelve hours since the jump and he needed nourishment before his work tonight. Based upon his reaction to the first smell of the land, he’d anticipated as unpleasant a surprise with the first taste of it but his breakfast had been delicious, reason enough to return to Ten Bells for dinner. When his server returned with the big bowl of broth filled with meat and fresh vegetables, along with a slice of fresh bread, the aroma was the most appealing he’d experienced thus far. He dug right in and the first bite had him intrigued and delighted in equal measure.

“How did you cook this?” Ethan questioned, hovering his nose over the bowl.

The server looked puzzled by the question, wondering if he noticed or intended to object to the substitution. “Why it’s boiled, sir, for hours by now, I s’pose.”

“This chicken is so tender!”

“It’s rabbit, sir. Hopin’ ya don’t mind. Chicken wasn’t ready yet.”

“Fine. Is it the whole rabbit or the rabbit hole?” As an awkward silence ensued between the two, Ethan continued. “Just, please, don’t tell me your name is Alice!”

Wondering if her customer was daft, she had hoped he, at least, had tip money to spare for her trouble. Looking at him cockeyed, she noticed something odd about this interesting man in her midst, something different about him.

From first taste to the bottom of the bowl, he devoured the meal. He looked up to see the hopefully non-Alice returning.

“Will there be anythin’ else, sir?” She received her answer with one nod of his head as he lifted his bowl with both hands, the eyes of an innocent child staring up at her. She had no idea he was paying homage to Charles Dickens and Oliver Twist.

“Please, ma’am, I want some more.” He was suddenly insatiable.

Taking the bowl from his hands, she aimed to serve and please so she aimed for the kitchen. Smiling as she maneuvered through the burgeoning crowd, the woman shook her head. An expression belied a thought: “How curious...definitely daft!”

Ethan did not know how it was seasoned and didn’t care. He’d had rabbit before but never with such bold flavors. Perhaps all the chemical additives in the food he’d eaten in the past (in the future) deadened the natural taste of things. He’d absolutely inhaled the broth, a bit more cautious in the dissection of the rabbit meat, insuring there was no pink left inside. Food poisoning was a consideration on this trip. Ethan needed to be fit and healthy to remain as light on his feet as possible. Even though he’d found that the Ten Bells Pub did it right, one night when the cook was off and someone else stood in and didn’t do it right could be disastrous for his research. He decided for the duration of his stay to stick to the basics, definitely the coffee! Using his piece of bread to sop up the broth drippings remaining on his plate, his gracious server had perfect timing, arriving with a refilled bowl, more bread and a fresh glass of water. Diving right in, it was pure comfort food.

“Thank you, kindly.” Ethan made a muffled sound through wet bread. Gulping down the water, he was all ready to return to his coffee then get back to his journal, perhaps even make another entry. At this point, Ethan believed there was far more to document than the research or the murders. Drakes. Clemens. Edgewood, already a colorful cast of characters had made his acquaintance, even in blood red dreams! There was much to note, experiencing the era for every nuance it provided. If there were Scopes who have research submissions pertaining to this timeframe awaiting approval from The Consortium, his notes may give them even more insights, more of an advantage than what he was privy to as a historian. If this research ever went public in the future (one hundred and thirty-two years in the future) at least people would hopefully appreciate their creature comforts in the 21st Century. On second thought, they would still take everything for granted, just like he did. Ethan grinned. Never mind.

About to open his journal, once more the woman serving him returned.

“Like more coffee, would ya sir?”

“Yes, thank you. That would be lovely. Please.” Ethan was quite impressed with her attentiveness considering the congestion in the pub as more folks filed in by the moment, the talking, laughing and singing growing louder as time passed.

Returning quickly with a fresh cup, she placed it directly in front of him. Ethan smiled in appreciation then dropped his eyes, scanning the pages of his journal. It took him by surprise when his server, without invitation, claimed the opposite chair. Ethan looked perplexed, wondering if this was a common occurrence.

“Not from ‘round ‘ere, are ya?” She seemed mesmerized by him.

“Why do you ask?” Cautious, Ethan did not want to answer questions by telling lies to cover his tracks across the centuries.

“Ya stick out like a sore thumb. Where ya from?”

“London. Well, Oxford.”

A look of pity came over her face. “Aww, lost yer job, ‘ave ya? Not t’ worry, love. Yer not the first nor will ya be the last. Hard times. It’ll get better.”

Ethan looked confused then remembered what he was wearing. His outfit was actually misrepresenting him, certainly not as a vagrant but more a man struggling to make ends meet. “Oh, yes, well, I can see how you may come to that conclusion.”

“See? There ya go! Who bloody talks like that in Whitechapel, I ask ya?”

Ethan realized he hadn’t kept consistency in his accent or verbiage. “Guess I’m not cut out for espionage, after all.” Ethan joked.

“Love, as precious as ya are, don’t matter. What’s ya name?”

“Arthur. The name’s Arthur.” Ethan responded. “And yours?”

“Maggie.” Drying her hands on her apron, she reached across the table to make a more formal acquaintance as he cordially extended his own hand.

Another Maggie. Ethan reflected back to the last time he saw the mud-splattered assistant at the Flicker time trials in The Valley.

“A pleasure to meet you, Maggie.”

“So, Arthur.” Maggie said with a hint of sarcasm as if she knew he’d lied about his name. “What brings ya to Whitechapel?”

Ethan could not tell a stranger the truth, not even his fictitious title of “doctor”, as it wouldn’t help and may yet harm his need to lay low. His fake title was intended only to provide access to areas where physicians would be allowed to enter.

“I’m a historian. I’m doing some research for a book on the history of London’s vast cultural origins, thus explaining my desire to fit in.” He tugged at his lapel.

“Well, ya’ve come to the right place, love.” Maggie waved down one of her co-workers and asked her to bring along a pint of beer.

“Aren’t you working?” Ethan asked, a logical assumption.

“Me? Nah. Been off for near an hour now.”

The quizzical expression on Ethan’s face made her erupt with laughter. She had been waiting for him to finish his meal, hoping she could spend time with him.

“Then to whom should I pay my tab?”

“Tab? Beg ya pardon?” Maggie looked as puzzled as her patron.

“So sorry. I meant, who is it I must pay for the food and drink?” Ethan corrected himself for his out-of-century terminology.

“Why, this lady right here.” Maggie said as her friend returned with the beer.

“Oh, then I’d like to pay for her drink, as well.”

“Well, who’s this generous gentleman, Maggie?” Inquiring as she set down the pint, she was a cheerful sort, appearing tired around the eyes.

“Rose, meet me new friend...Arthur.”

“It’s an honor m’ lord.” The second server curtsied as if standing before royalty in a mocking fashion, giggling.

Ethan gazed at the woman hovering over the table, waiting for payment. She’d bloomed long ago and clearly, the blush was off the blossom but there was a beauty about her that could not be denied. Reaching into his wallet below the table, Ethan removed the money for the meal and drinks, including a tip for Rose. When she left he passed a tip to Maggie, as well, in addition to what was covered on the bill.

“Ya not propositionin’ me, now are ya, sir?”

“What? Heavens, no. You brought me coffee, water and my meal. It’s a simple gratuity, a gesture of thanks, nothing more.” Ethan said nervously.

Maggie laughed aloud again as she downed her beer.

“Oh, you’re a fun one to mess with, ya are! Have a beer with me but allow me to pay. My pleasure. Yer a delightful sort, if a bit mysterious.”

“That’s not proper. I should pay.” Ethan argued the point.

Holding out the tip from Ethan, Maggie asserted, “But sir, ya already did!” She flagged down Rose in passing, having her fetch another pint for him.

For the next several hours the two of them chatted, Ethan always being on guard not to reveal anything of his identity or purpose for being here, even the persona he assumed for the jump. He was strategically probing Maggie for information about this strange land he was in and getting a perspective from a living person from this time. After all, it didn’t all have to be about the murders and his research. This was his opportunity to learn the back story of the actors in a grand stage play.

Ethan was always fascinated with women from history. He had his own opinion and perspective, coming from a time, an era when the opposite sex had more power, position and choices in everything. A history of the species was confusing for both sexes. Women no longer fulfilled a typical role in society. For most of the civilized world those times were gone forever. From corporate executives, combat soldiers, politicians and professional athletes to mothers who’d deliberately chosen to work even harder at home raising their young, the women from the 21st Century were the first of only a few generations to achieve some semblance of freedom in their lives.

In the 19th Century, women lived in constant survival mode unless they’d been born into aristocracy, provided the wealth of a name, hence entitled. For all the rest there was always the necessity to fear men. From a young age they were taught by other women, mothers and siblings or, for orphaned girls, by experience, that they were the weaker sex and needed to be strong in other ways. They had to develop a skill set. Unless they had access to education, the females of society were destined to serve the males through skills in cooking, cleaning and seduction, servicing their dominant male counterparts. They had to learn to manipulate situations to their best advantage, conceived to prolong their survival in the midst of a bleak existence.

Amazed by having this woman Maggie sitting across the table from him, Ethan could get a firsthand description of her reality, the tale of her daily struggle. Maggie shared little of her personal history but spoke of women in plural, giving examples of friends, fictitiously named or not, detailing the strife she’d seen them overcome or succumb to over time. He was captivated, his rapt attention fixed on every word she uttered. Ethan was studying Maggie, memorizing her, taking mental snapshots of his companion, spellbound by the subject matter. She had an earthy appearance. Her life here had taken its toll, along with the drinking which, by Ethan’s estimate, was definitely a regular part of life, considering the way she’d already thrown back two mugs and ordered another round. She appeared to be in her thirties but he would never ask such an improper question. She was a woman more on the heavy side but shapely. She knew her size and carried it well with jovial charm and wit. Ethan was impressed with her, using what little empathy he could relate to, her strong will and determination, not allowing rough living conditions to shake her foundation. In fact, she knew no other way to live.

Her intense eyes were the most intriguing part of her, filled with a wisdom and pain and joy. Of course, Ethan was only able to use his life as reference in this real time scenario, not having this resource of live interaction with the literary works he studied at Oxford as a student, teacher or Scope. He found her enchanting, her many anecdotal references to the colorful people of town, riveting. She even brought up Drakes and Clemens, although Ethan chose not to acknowledge his familiarity with either man or anyone else he’d encountered in his travels. He just let her garrulous nature flow. There was no romantic attraction, nor could there be, considering their age difference, though he was definitely enticed, drawn to a lifelong dream fulfilled as he spoke with somebody who might as well have been a ghost. He was engaging in a living history lesson. For Ethan, theirs was a cerebral connection, although she continued to flirt while sharing story after story. Slowly nursing his pint, caught up with the beguiling character sitting across the table from him, Ethan felt like a small boy sitting in the cinema for the first time, watching the magic of moving pictures, enthralled with every nuance of the moment. Maggie didn’t seem to mind.

They spoke, or rather, she did for nearly three hours. In that time the pub patrons had become considerably inebriated, a rowdy crowd, yet all the noise was absorbed before it ever reached Ethan’s ears. He was oblivious to his surroundings, listening only to Maggie. Of course, with a few more pints, she too became more boisterous, to a point where the stories were becoming redundant, as cloudy and incoherent as the crowd. Ethan checked his pocket watch, more than a force of habit.

“Ya’ve someplace to be?” Maggie seemed disappointed, sensing their evening together was coming to an end.

Maintaining his demeanor, Ethan’s heart jumped a little knowing he was deeply into the first full evening of his stay and needed to depart the scene, deferring to the pending reconnoiter he’d yet to complete, the alley where Jack’s first victim would be found. Ethan apologized to Maggie, excusing himself, explaining that he needed to return to his room to document as much of her story as he could recall. Maggie offered to help him remember anything he forgot the following night, as she would be working the same shift. Pretending to be a socialite, extending her hand for Ethan to kiss, he preferred the cautious approach, reciprocating with a proper handshake.

“See you for dinner tomorrow, then?” Ethan confirmed the appointment.

“Are ya asking me t’ dinner, sir?” She flirted in jest, knowing his intention.

“No. I mean...sure if....” Ethan was placed in an awkward position.

Maggie laughed, quickly vanishing into the crowd like a ghost into a wall. Ethan once again navigated his way to the exit. The time had come to go to work.